


Over the Edge

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-31 09:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: Ignoring it then. James can do that. He can sit here while Lewis helps him on with the sling and not lean into his touch. He can get into bed once the sling is fastened and close his eyes and pretend the reason he’s breathing a bit heavier than normal is down to exhaustion and pain. It’s not untrue, even if it’s not the whole truth. He can accept the water and painkillers Lewis brings him, and not read anything into it when Lewis smooths the duvet over his chest and tells him to get some sleep. He can do that. He can close his eyes even though it’s not even properly dark yet and not think about the pain in his shoulder or the pain in his head or the pain of longing for Lewis to touch him and mean it. He can try to sleep.
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Comments: 64
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was resurrected from a fic I abandoned in 2017. I have no idea why I never finished it then, but that's why I never throw anything away. Sometimes two year old fics get finished. It's all written, but chapters two and three still need some editing, so I'll post them as they're completed (I'm aiming for once a week). 
> 
> A million thanks to Jack for the beta, Britpick, and pedantry. As always, this would have been much poorer without their help.

James blinks against the drizzle, a raindrop sliding down his neck and under his collar. It’s not raining hard, but he and Lewis have been trudging around in the wet looking for a specific boat with an uncertain mooring location for going on two hours. He’d have brought an umbrella if he’d known it was going to take this long. 

The towpath is beginning to form puddles, dirt turning slick and muddy; yet there are still tourists out in brightly coloured and improvised raincoats stopping in the middle of the towpath to take pictures, getting in the way. With how the rest of this week has gone, he should have expected nothing less. No part of this bloody case has been simple, every lead and follow-up spawning another thread that sends them on another wild goose chase; untangling convoluted webs of aliases and false addresses and running up against never-ending dead ends. James is tired and he’s wet and he wants to find this bastard and arrest him so he can go home and have a hot meal and a hot shower and a large whisky. 

They round a bend and finally, _finally_, there is the bastard in question, Devlin Crook, patching a hole in the roof of a faded red houseboat with _Little Devil_ painted on the side. There’s a joke in there somewhere about their suspect’s name and crackpot theories of criminality that James would make if the rain wasn’t starting to soak through his suit jacket. 

Of course, this week being what it is, Crook bolts as soon as he spots them, jumping from the roof of the boat and sprinting off down the towpath, bowling over tourists in his wake. 

“For fuck’s sake,” James spits, as Lewis shouts, “Oi!”

The rain picks up as James gives chase, his shoes sliding in the mud. He doesn’t wait for Lewis, lengthening his stride, wishing he was wearing trainers, swiping rainwater out of his eyes as he runs. 

Crook hesitates at the top of the bridge by the lock, glancing at James, then down at a houseboat trundling underneath. That hesitation is all James needs to catch up to him. With a great lunge, he gets a handful of Crook’s raincoat and wrenches his arms behind his back.

“You’ll never catch me,” Crook snarls. 

“Already have,” James growls. Crook doesn’t even have the decency to admit when he’s been caught, but James is not going to let this case drag on for even another hour. He pulls Crook around and frogmarches him down the bridge toward Lewis who is fighting his way through the gathering crowd.

“That’s what you think.” Crook twists in James’ rain-slick grasp and manages an elbow to James’ ribs, then kicks to his shin and knee in quick succession, and he’s halfway over the railing before James can get a hold on him again. 

“Oh no you don’t,” James grits out through clenched teeth, catching Crook by the wrist as he swings his other leg over the railing. Crook leans out over the edge of the bridge, trying to wrench his arm free of James’ grasp. He is _not_ letting Crook go, but Crook has the leverage and James can’t stop him from pushing himself off the side. 

“Fuck,” James shouts as his arm takes Crook’s full weight, Crook’s feet dangling in the air above the canal. James tightens his grip around the slick metal railing to keep them both from going over the edge. 

“Devlin Crook,” James shouts, the railing digging into his stomach as he fights to keep his hold. “You are under arrest for the murder of Jesse Swinton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you—“

“Fuck you!” Crook shouts and starts swinging his legs. The rain picks up. James’ grip on both Crook and the railing slips a fraction more.

“Stop it,” James growls. 

“Make me,” Crook sneers, swinging his legs wider, out toward the boat passing beneath him. 

James braces his legs on the railing, using the leverage to tug Crook up and grab his wrist with both hands, but Crook is still swinging his legs, and without a hold on the railing each swing pulls James a little more off balance.

There is commotion behind him. Lewis shouting, “Out of my way!” 

James can’t turn to look, his grip on Crook slipping ever farther as the rain pounds down harder. His feet slide forward on the slick bridge and James is forced to let go of Crook’s wrist with his left hand to grab for the railing. His right arm feels like it’s being wrenched from its socket as it takes all of Crook’s weight. Then Crook swings his legs out even farther, doubling James over the railing, the impact almost knocking the breath out of him as the metal digs into his stomach. Lewis is close behind him now, shouting his name, Lewis’ hand on his shoulder, but it’s too late. There is a sickening pop and an intense, stabbing pain in his shoulder. 

James can’t breathe. 

He loses his grip on Crook, loses his footing on the bridge, and pitches over the edge. 

Everything is slow motion and fast forward at once. Lewis shouting “James!” The low chugging of the houseboat engine as it continues its slow progress under the bridge, the driver’s face tilted up in surprise, Crook disappearing into the churn of green water in the boat’s wake. The boat rushes up to meet James; not the flat roof but the low deck near the engine, squared-off metal and pipe railings and the propeller just beyond. He hits metal and metal and water, head and arm and hip, a whip-crack of pain shooting through his skull and down his neck, the spin of the propeller blades far too close when he hits the water.

James gasps, taking in more water than air, not quite keeping his head above the churn. His shoes sink into the mucky bottom giving him no purchase. He tries to tread water but moving his right arm only makes the world blossom into a crescendo of bright pain and he’s gasping, inhaling more water. 

Shit. _Shit_. He can’t drown in the bloody canal. 

The stones at the canal edge are slippery with splashed water and rain; he can’t get a grip on them with only his left hand, can’t move his right arm without the pain in his shoulder spiking and breathing in more water.

Then there are hands reaching down, under his armpits, pulling him up, the pain in his arm even more excruciating once he’s out of the water, back in gravity’s pull. James tries not to shout as he’s dragged onto the bank. His head is painful and tender when it comes in contact with the ground. But Lewis is there, Lewis’ hands are on him. Lewis pulled him out. Lewis saved him.

James lies still and tries to breathe, wipes canal water off his face only for it to be replaced with rainwater. Tries to take a deep breath to make up for the oxygen lost when inhaling the canal, but his breath comes up short, the sharp whip of pain in his shoulder forcing each inhale shallow. He closes his eyes. He loses some time. 

He opens his eyes. 

James is lying on his back on the edge of the canal and Lewis is above him. Beyond Lewis, there are tree branches, leaves. The rain has let up or the trees are sheltering him from the worst of it. Lewis’ face is wet, dear. So near James wants to touch. He reaches for him but pain shoots through his arm leaving him gasping. 

His head is throbbing. His arm is on fire. The world goes squidgy at the edges when he turns his head. His face is wet. His everything is wet. James blinks, his eyes sting; rain or tears or canal water. Lewis is saying something above him, asking a question. He can tell it’s a question by the cadence of Lewis’ voice but focusing on the words is difficult. Lewis’ beautiful face is scrunched in concern. 

“Crook?” James asks.

“Uniform’s got him.”

“Thank fuck.” James lets his head fall to the ground, then gasps as pain shoots through down his neck at the contact.

“Here, lift your head.” Lewis’ hand is gentle, curved around the base of his skull, careful not to touch the most tender spot. James focuses on the way Lewis’ warm fingers slide through his wet hair, not how moving his neck intensifies the pain in his shoulder, then Lewis is easing James down. There is something, not soft, but softer than the ground beneath him. “That should do you until the paramedics get here.” 

Lewis isn’t wearing his suit jacket any longer.

Wait. He said paramedics. Is that why James is still lying on the ground in the wet? Why Lewis hasn’t tried to help him up? He’d like to stand. Sit up at least, stop the rain dripping off the trees into his face. Is he that badly off? The pain in his head has lessened somewhat now that it isn’t directly in contact with the hard ground, the pain in his shoulder, not so much. As long as he takes only very shallow breaths it’s not quite the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. Lewis turns to look at something behind him out of James’ view. 

His head feels odd. Lewis is saying something to someone James can’t see, then another voice in response. Paramedics appear; green and neon yellow. Quick, sure movements. Hands on his head and his shoulder and his chest. Not Lewis’ hands. Checking him, wrapping his neck in a brace, lifting him onto a stretcher. James tries not to shout.

It is a strange perspective lying on his back moving sideways past trees and onlookers and the tops of buildings. Lewis is there, following along next to him, then in front of him, then next to him again, until there are no trees and no sky, only the ceiling of the ambulance and harsh unchanging light. 

The brace won’t let James turn to see Lewis properly. He tries to be content with the side of Lewis’ face and Lewis’ voice saying, “You’re all right. They say it’s a dislocated shoulder, likely a concussion.” James tries to nod in acknowledgement but he can’t move his head.

The ambulance turns a corner and the world keeps spinning in a wave of dizzy nausea. James closes his eyes, but the spinning doesn’t stop, he reaches out his left hand, the one not encased in pain, and Lewis is there, his fingers closing around James’. 

“I’m here, lad,” Lewis says. 

James holds on.

A&E is a blur of bright lights and nurses and doctors, questions James is sure he’s not answering correctly, and instructions he can no longer remember; information he tries to hold onto but can’t quite grasp. They give him something that makes the pain fade to a dull roar, then twist his shoulder until he can’t keep from shouting before the pain lessens again. Then he’s left to rest. With the pain in his shoulder damped down, all he can think about is how much he wants a shower. He’s covered in canal water and hospital. His suit is surely ruined.  


* * *

  
James startles awake in the passenger seat of Lewis’ car. His entire body aches. He’s cold. He can feel the wet chill of the canal still lingering even though he’s wearing dry hospital scrubs and the spare shirt he keeps in the office; though he’s not sure how the shirt got from the office to him. Or what became of his suit. He remembers being dripping wet but not taking his suit off. His head swims with the motion of the car as Lewis makes the turn onto James’ street, parks the car. The motion stops and the engine goes silent. When James turns his head, Lewis is watching him. 

“All right?” Lewis asks.

James nods, blinks. His shoulder and head hurt in a dull far away way. The whole world feels dull and far away, like he’s been asleep for days. But that can’t be. Lewis is wearing the same suit, the jacket rumpled and streaked with dried mud. 

“Yeah,” James replies instead of shrugging. He will be all right anyway, once he’s made it inside and is warm under his duvet. He fumbles for the seatbelt, failing to unbuckle it. His right arm, held flush to his body by the sling, is in the way. When he bumps it trying to reach the buckle, dull waves of pain pulse through his shoulder making his head swim.

“Here, let me.” Lewis reaches over, his warm fingers brush James’ where he’s still trying to sort out the buckle. James holds his breath as Lewis eases the seatbelt off.

Out of the car, across the pavement, James keeps his feet, but a wave of dizziness overtakes him on his way up the steps. He stumbles and Lewis steadies him, arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure on James’ shoulder. James can’t help but lean into the touch, put his left arm around Lewis’ waist in turn until the seasick motion fades. 

When they reach the door, James fumbles for his keys in pockets he doesn’t have. Lewis produces a plastic baggy containing James’ keys, wallet, phone, cigarettes, and warrant card, all hopelessly sodden. He takes the keys out and hands James the baggy, their fingers brushing again. Lewis’ fingers are so warm James wants to cling to them. He doesn’t. He keeps his hands—his hand—to himself while Lewis gets the door open and helps James through and into the living room. James feels steadier in his own flat, but he doesn’t move away from Lewis. He lets Lewis ease him down onto the sofa. He sinks into the cushions. 

The lamps are switched on and a mug of tea is steaming on the coffee table in front of him when James opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember closing them.

“Have a good nap?” Lewis asks from the kitchen. There is a pan on the stove, two bowls on the worktop, and slices of bread on the cutting board.

James hums a response, still sleep-muzzy. He wonders if it’s the concussion or the painkillers that are to blame for him drifting off so readily when sleep so often eludes him regardless of how exhausted he is. 

“Hungry?” Lewis asks.

“Maybe?”

“That’ll do.” Lewis ladles soup into bowls. He plunks them down on the coffee table and then looks at James’ arm in the sling, then at the bowls. His face scrunches up in consternation. “Soup,” he says. “I didn’t think. Can you manage the table?”

James isn’t entirely sure he can, not without assistance, but Lewis has made him soup and he’s not going to look a gift soup in the mouth. Some of that must show on his face. Lewis leaves the soup where it is and helps James up and into a chair at the table, then returns with the bowls, bread, and butter.

His left hand won’t hold the spoon properly, his head feels almost too heavy to keep upright, but the soup is good; warm and just the right amount of salty. By the time he’s most of the way through the bowl James is beginning to feel more himself, can even form sentences that make sense in his head and focus on something beyond the haze of pain and cold still clinging to him.

“Thank you,” James says. “For all this… you needn’t have.”

Lewis gives him a knowing smile. “That’s where you’re wrong. They would have kept you overnight for observation without someone here to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh.” James blinks at Lewis. He doesn’t remember anything about being kept under observation. Doesn’t remember asking. “You shouldn’t— That’s not an inspector’s… I should never have asked.” So much for forming proper sentences. 

Lewis smiles, indulgent and amused. “You didn’t. You were asleep and the nurse seemed to think I would be at home with you when they let you out. I didn’t tell her otherwise.”

The spoon rattles into James’ almost empty bowl. Lewis let the nurse think— That can’t be what he meant. James is losing his grip on more than his spoon. Must be the concussion; his mind making leaps of fancy out of his control. Lewis must have said he was James’ partner and the nurse misunderstood that he meant work partner, but Lewis going along with her misconception so James could come home…

“Thank you,” James says again. “I’m very— I’m so—” Grateful. Undeserving. Amazed. Completely unable to put into words how much Lewis’ willingness to help means to him. “I just— Thank you,” he finishes clumsily.

“Any time, lad.” Lewis’ smile is warm and soft, as if he means it, as if helping James is something that pleases him in its own right.

James concentrates on his soup, sopping up the last of it with his bread and tamps down the tiny flare of hope that blooms in his chest. Lewis is indulging him because he’s injured, because he knows that James hasn’t got anyone else. That’s what this is.

Lewis’ hand is resting on the table next to his bowl as he eats. James now knows how those fingers feel clasping his own, how warm they are. When he’s finished eating, James doesn’t reach for Lewis. He digs the fingers of his left hand into his thigh through the thin fabric of his borrowed hospital scrubs. His right hand, at least, is restrained by the sling.

“You sure you’re feeling all right?” Lewis asks, the look of concern returning. 

“Yeah— I—” James tries to shrug, takes sharp inhale when the pain spikes. “As all right as could be expected, I guess. Better with the food.” 

Lewis nods. “Good.”

James sighs. “Could use a shower though, I’m covered in canal water and hospital.”

“Need any help?” Lewis asks, his cheeks taking on a hint of pink as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Or… No. You’ll be…” 

“Yeah, no.” James is picturing Lewis unfastening the sling and easing his shirt off his shoulders, his warm hands on James’ bare skin. He stands abruptly, nearly toppling the chair in his haste, then sways on his feet as an ocean of dizziness overtakes him, his vision going dark at the edges. Lewis is up out of his own chair and has his arm around James’ waist before James can even lean against the table. 

“Easy there,” Lewis says. “The nurse said you should go slow for the next couple of days. That was quite a knock to the head.” 

James nods and the dizziness doubles down, a storm at sea. He takes a slow breath. Lewis’ touch is warm through the fabric of his shirt. He realises he has no idea what became of his suit. 

“‘M fine.” James takes another slow breath and the room and Lewis’ face come back into focus. “Stood up too fast.” 

“Sure you can make it to the bathroom without hitting your head?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

Lewis smiles and takes his arm from around James’ waist. James valiantly doesn’t reach for him as he steps away.

The dizziness holds off as long as he doesn’t move too quickly and James makes it down the hallway, into the bathroom and out of his shoes and the scrubs with minimal difficulty. He even manages to undo the bottom few shirt buttons and the right cuff where it’s poking out from the sling. The sling, though, with its elaborate straps which he has only the dimmest memory of the nurse putting on, stymies him. The fastening must be made so that it can be removed by the wearer but each tug only succeeds in tightening it until the pressure on his shoulder is almost too much to bear. 

He is going to need Lewis’ help. When James bends down to pull the scrubs up again the wave of dizziness almost topples him to the floor, he only just manages to grab the edge of the sink, letting out a gasp of pain at the too-quick motion. There is a tentative knock at the door. Is he making so much noise that Lewis can hear him from the other room? 

“James,” comes Lewis’ voice through the door, sounding a bit worried. “I didn’t hear the shower. Are you—?”

“I’m fine, but I… I could use some assistance. The sling…” 

“All right if I come in?”

“Yeah.” James stands up as straight as he can, hoping to preserve some tiny shred of his dignity despite that fact that he’s standing there in his pants with the scrubs around his ankles.

The door opens slowly. Lewis gives him an assessing look. “You only had to ask.” 

James bows his head, runs his hand through his hair. “Hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”

“None of that.” Lewis steps forward into the room. “Let’s see this sling then.” 

Lewis makes quick work of the straps with his two functional hands. Only when the tension is released does James realise how much he’d overtightened it. He’s going to have to learn to work it properly. He doesn’t even know how long he’s meant to wear it and he doesn’t want to ask Lewis. That would be telling about how much he doesn’t remember from the hospital. There must be paperwork somewhere with care instructions he can read. 

For want of a better place to put it in the tiny bathroom, Lewis folds the sling over the edge of the sink. He glances up at James. “Shirt?” 

James nods, not trusting his voice. He could probably sort the shirt on his own, except the button on his left cuff, but Lewis is offering and he can’t bring himself to say no. Can’t banish the image his mind had conjured at the table. 

Lewis’ thick fingers carefully push the buttons through the holes, the barest brush of his fingertips across James’ skin, and James feels his face warm with each subsequent button. This is a terrible idea, but if he stops Lewis now it will be painfully obvious why. If he doesn’t stop him it will also be obvious. James closes his eyes and hopes to God that Lewis doesn’t notice. 

When he eases the shirt off James’ shoulders, Lewis takes extra care with the right side, then steps away, shirt in hand. His eyes flick to James’ chest, then down, before very briefly catching James’ eye, his cheeks taking on a distinctly pink hue. James wants to reach for him. He clenches his left hand into a fist by his side and wishes his nails weren’t so bitten down that he can’t dig them into his palm.

“You, ah—” Lewis gestures toward the shower.

“No, I’m— Thanks.” He can feel the heat in his cheeks travelling down his neck.

“Good, well—” Lewis points toward the open door and the rest of the flat. “Shout if you need anything.” He looks almost as flustered as James feels.

“Yeah,” James says. 

Then Lewis is turning, shutting the door behind him, still holding James’ shirt. His footsteps falter outside the door. James both desperately wants him to open the door and just as desperately wants it to remain firmly shut. He can feel the blush creeping down his chest. There is the quiet sound of fabric and a slight rattle of the door handle, then footsteps leading to the living room. 

James takes as deep a breath as he can without jostling his shoulder and turns on the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research into both concussions and dislocated shoulders for this but deliberately not all of the research. Please excuse all medical inaccuracies as poetic license.


	2. Chapter 2

Showering is exhausting. The painkillers are wearing off and keeping his shoulder still without the sling is almost impossible. Every small movement bursts into bright sparks of pain and James is only somewhat successful at washing and then drying himself with his one good arm. He stops to rest a moment, leaning on the wall halfway to the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist and still mostly wet all down his left side. 

The sound of cutlery in the sink filters down the hallway from the kitchen, dishes being stacked, washing up sounds that go on longer than soup ought to precipitate. Lewis is washing the three days’ accumulation of dirty dishes that James had left in the sink. He should tell Lewis it’s not necessary. He’s already done far more than necessary but… Lewis is washing his dirty dishes from days ago and that’s… James sighs and leans more heavily against the wall. He blinks past the wetness prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

The water shuts off, then footsteps. James doesn’t manage to right himself before Lewis is coming down the hallway behind him.

“Didn’t drown then?”

“Nope,” James says, popping the P. “‘M knackered, though.” 

Lewis is standing close, worried that James may topple over at any minute, no doubt. Or it’s just that the hallway is narrow and there isn’t enough space for two people to stand without being close. Lewis’ shirt sleeves are rolled up, his bare forearms inches from James’ naked chest. If he turned, James could brush Lewis’ arm, feel Lewis’ bare skin against his own. James closes his eyes for a moment. The towel begins to slip. 

“You going to make it the rest of the way on your own?” Lewis asks.

“Yeah.” James doesn’t look Lewis in the eye, hopes Lewis will go back to the kitchen. Doesn’t want Lewis to go back to the kitchen. The towel chooses that moment to slip further down his hips. James grabs for it, his wet skin sliding against the wall, and takes an involuntary stumbling step toward Lewis.

“Hey,” Lewis puts a steadying hand on James’ lower back just above the dangerously low towel, fingers sliding over damp skin, and James somehow manages to both not overbalance and keep the towel from slipping further. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall down.”

“Already fell,” James mumbles. He’s talking about the bridge. He’s also not talking about the bridge.

“Aye, and I’m not keen to watch you do it again.” Lewis’ eyes flick down then up, meeting James’ eyes for the barest moment. He licks his lips; an unconscious nervous reaction, surely, to being uncomfortably close to his nearly naked sergeant. 

It takes all the willpower James has left not to lean forward and follow Lewis’ tongue with his own. James swallows. 

“Bed,” Lewis says, as if there’s nothing at all odd about his hand on James’ naked back guiding him along. As if it’s perfectly innocent to be talking about taking James to bed. And it is. It can’t be anything else. It won’t ever be anything else.

Lewis’ arm around James’ waist now is no different to Lewis helping him into the flat, to the sofa, to the table. It doesn’t matter that James is essentially naked. It doesn’t matter that Lewis’ hand is warm on his shower-damp skin. It doesn’t matter that his fingers move across James’ side as he adjusts his grip to help James through the bedroom door. It doesn’t matter how good the weight of Lewis’ arm feels around his waist. Lewis is only trying to help.

When James sits down on the bed, still clutching the towel, Lewis’ hand slides from his waist up to his left shoulder. He gives James a gentle squeeze before he takes a step away. It’s not a caress. James is tired, he’s concussed, he’s reading too much into everything. 

“Pyjamas?” Lewis asks. His cheeks look pinkish, but that must be a trick of the dim bedroom light. Not… anything else. It takes James a moment to realise Lewis is asking where he keeps his pyjamas. 

“Bottom drawer.” 

Something passes across Lewis’ face that can’t possibly be there before he moves off to the dresser. If he wasn’t so bone-deep exhausted James would say something to break the tension. He’s naked but for a towel in his bedroom with his boss. This is fine. Completely normal. Someday they’ll have a laugh about it and James won’t feel a blush creeping up his cheeks and down his chest when he does. Lewis is fetching joggers and an old t-shirt, putting said joggers and t-shirt down on the bed next to him and asking if he needs help getting them on.

“Y— No I— I can manage. I’ll just—”

“Right. Good.” Lewis’ cheeks are most definitely pink now. “I’ll leave you to it.”

James resists the urge to flop backwards onto the bed in relief when the door clicks shut behind Lewis; neither his shoulder or his head would thank him for that. He settles for pulling the joggers on over his still-damp skin, then contemplates the t-shirt for a moment. Getting his arm through the sleeve isn’t going to be easy, but he doesn’t fancy fastening the scratchy nylon straps of the sling over his bare skin. That and Lewis isn’t likely to just leave him be for the rest of the night, not the way he’s been fussing. He’ll be in to check on James soon. That alone is reason enough to cover himself up if he can’t keep from blushing every time he looks at Lewis, or thinks about Lewis, or thinks about Lewis looking at him. 

James manages to struggle half-way into the t-shirt, getting his left arm and head through, but the right side of the shirt stays stubbornly bunched up around his neck. He wrestles with it for a bit, trying to stretch the fabric enough to get his right arm into the sleeve, before he has to concede that he’s not getting any further on his own. Not to mention the sling, which must still be in the bathroom. Before he can gather himself to try to stand, he hears Lewis’ footsteps returning. 

There is a tap on the door. “I’ve brought the sling,” Lewis says.

“Thanks,” James says, and then when the door doesn’t open. “Come in.”

Lewis gives him a crooked smile when he sees James sitting on the bed with his shirt bunched up around his neck, then steps forward, pulling at the sleeve so James can get his right arm through with a minimum of motion and pain. When Lewis tugs the shirt down his chest, the tip of his finger brushes James’ nipple. 

James gasps, heat pooling in his gut and Lewis steps away as if burned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t hurt me. I— You—” James huffs out a breath, willing the heat in his cheeks to dissipate but it only grows warmer. “You could do it again,” he blurts. So much for self-preservation.

Lewis stares at him, his cheeks more than pink, the sling dangling from his hand. Then he blinks and shakes his head. “Let’s get this thing on before you hurt yourself again.” 

Ignoring it then. James can do that. He can sit here while Lewis helps him on with the sling and not lean into his touch. He can get into bed once the sling is fastened and close his eyes and pretend the reason he’s breathing a bit heavier than normal is down to exhaustion and pain. It’s not untrue, even if it’s not the whole truth. He can accept the water and painkillers Lewis brings him, and not read anything into it when Lewis smooths the duvet over his chest and tells him to get some sleep. He can do that. He can close his eyes even though it’s not even properly dark yet and not think about the pain in his shoulder or the pain in his head or the pain of longing for Lewis to touch him and mean it. He can try to sleep.

* * *

  
James is aware of light, a gentle touch on his chest. When he opens his eyes, Lewis is standing above him, his features soft in the glow of the bedside lamp. 

“Sorry to wake you, lad.” Lewis’ voice is equally soft.

James can’t stop his lips curving into a smile. “It’s fine.” And it is fine, more than fine for Lewis to be the first thing James sees when he wakes. It’s dark outside the window now. Lewis is here in James’ bedroom at night, waking him, not home in his own flat. “Why are you—?” James starts.

“Have to make sure you don’t drop into a coma, don’t I?”

Oh. Right. “Am I okay?”

“You woke up, so seems it. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” 

“In pain?”

James shrugs, or tries to shrug, then winces. “Not so much if I don’t move.”

Lewis purses his lips. “Suppose that’s the best we can hope for.” 

“Mmm.” James doesn’t feel fully awake. Should he tell Lewis that? It seems more likely a symptom of being woken from a sound sleep than the concussion. He doesn’t want to go back to hospital, he wants to stay here in bed with Lewis watching over him. He wants Lewis next to him like he was in the ambulance. 

James reaches toward Lewis before he thinks better of it, his left hand stretched awkwardly across his own body. Lewis hesitates for a moment then sits on the edge of the bed, James shifts his legs to make room, and Lewis takes James’ hand in his, grip light but firm.

“You sure you’re all right, lad?”

“Yeah,” James sighs. “It’s— Thank you for making me soup and doing the washing up and…” Holding his hand, and holding him steady, and helping him on with the sling, and making sure he hasn’t fallen into a coma. All the things that Lewis never should have had to do for him. “Everything.”

“Of course.” Lewis’ expression has gone softer still. “You should get some more sleep if you can. Rest that big brain of yours.” Lewis squeezes James’ hand and stands. James doesn’t reach for him again but it’s a near thing. “I’ll be on the sofa. Shout if you need anything.”

“Okay.” James is already starting to drift off. He hardly registers Lewis turning off the light and leaving the room. 

But then he’s suddenly wide awake. On the sofa? Wait. Why is Lewis—? James leans up on his left elbow, sitting up as best he can, his tired brain catching up with what Lewis said. 

“Sir,” James says. There is no sound from the hallway and the door remains shut. James tries again, louder. “Sir!”

Lewis appears in the doorway a moment later, rushing to the side of the bed as if there’s some sort of crisis and turning on the light. His brow is creased in concern. 

“James?”

“You can’t,” James says. “Your back.” 

“My back what?”

“The sofa. It’s not—” Why is it so hard to form proper sentences? Sleep ought to have helped with that. He knows what he needs to say but the words are sideways. “You’ll do your back in.” 

Lewis shakes his head looking relieved. “I’ll be fine, lad. You just worry about yourself.” He moves to turn off the light. 

“No, it’s not—” James sighs. Lewis needs to understand, James isn’t worth hurting himself over. “You shouldn’t have to… you shouldn’t be punished for taking care of me.”

The look on Lewis’ face reads an awful lot like affection to James’ concussion-addled brain. “Helping you isn’t punishment.”

He still isn’t getting it. 

“But if you’ve done your back in by morning…” James sits up, pulling back the duvet and placing his feet on the floor with deliberate care. Sitting up only makes him feel the slightest bit dizzy. Sleep has done him some good even if words are still hard, he can make it through the rest of the night like this.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sofa,” James says. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Lewis steps forward, placing his hand gently but firmly on James’ left shoulder, keeping him from moving any farther. “It’s only one night, lad. I’ll be fine. You need to sleep.” 

“One night, yeah. So I can—”

“James.” Lewis’ face is all kind concern and— things that James’ concussion-addled brain have conjured to torture him. He is bone-deep tired and Lewis isn’t wrong, he does need sleep and he won’t sleep well on the sofa with his arm. But Lewis won’t either. His bed is big enough for two. That’s completely rational. They can share. As Lewis said, it’s only the one night.

James relents and Lewis takes his hand away. James settles back into bed, pulling the duvet over himself. “If I can’t sleep on the sofa and you can’t sleep on the sofa then you could—” He gestures toward the empty side of the bed then up at Lewis. “There’s enough room…” 

“James—” Lewis starts. 

“Please, sir. Don’t hurt yourself on my account, I’d never—” He stops before saying forgive himself, before Lewis gives him that look when he says it. Lewis gives him that look anyway. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

“All right, lad. If it means you’ll go back to sleep.” Lewis runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll— I left the light on in the living room,” he finishes and leaves the room. 

Good. Good. This is good. It’s not the most terrible idea James has ever had. He’s exhausted, he’s only going to sleep. Lewis is going to sleep. The fact that they’ll be in the same bed doesn’t matter any more than it mattered that Lewis put his arm around James to help him to bed. This is only James helping Lewis in turn. Everything is fine.

James has almost drifted off to sleep by the time Lewis returns. He opens his eyes at the soft sound of Lewis coming around the bed to turn off the lamp, watches as he climbs into the other side of the bed, pokes at his phone, then places it on the bedside table and settles in with the duvet pulled up to his chin. James can feel Lewis’ weight on the other side of the mattress, hear him breathing in the dark, almost feel his warmth. He doesn’t move even an inch in Lewis’ direction. 

“Goodnight, James,” Lewis says, his voice sounds off. He must be tired as well. 

“Goodnight, sir.” James closes his eyes.

There is a chuckle from Lewis’ side of the bed. “How about you call me Robbie since we’re…” 

James opens his eyes. He can only just pick out Lewis’ face in the dark.

“Goodnight, Robbie,” James says. If some of the constant tug of longing that James feels is apparent in his tone he can pass it off as the concussion talking in the morning.

* * *

  
There is a breeze, warm and delicate across James’ cheek, soft like the first warm days of spring. James opens his eyes. He’s lying on his left side and Lewis, no, Robbie is less than a foot away, his face outlined in the glow of the moonlight through the curtains. Robbie is relaxed in sleep and so beautiful James suddenly finds it difficult to breathe; the delicate skin of his closed eyelids, the fine lines around his eyes, the curve of his cheek. 

James reaches out slowly—like the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly, like everything might—and brushes one tentative finger across Robbie’s cheek. When Robbie doesn’t stir, he traces his finger over Robbie's cheekbone, then down, following the curve of his jaw. Still Robbie doesn’t move away, if anything he moves the tiniest bit closer. James slides forward, studies Robbie’s face from an angle and a distance that he’s never been able to before. Memorises the exact cadence of Robbie’s steady sleep breath, the small snuffling snore that makes James want to kiss him even more than the usual underlying ache of it that lives in his chest. 

Robbie sighs, his lips parting slightly. James can’t help but touch the tip of his finger to Robbie’s lower lip, slide his head onto Robbie’s pillow. He can feel Robbie’s breath ghosting across his lips. James shifts his head, their noses brush. His breath comes up short. Robbie is so close and James has wanted this for so long, he can’t not move forward that fraction of an inch more and press his lips to Robbie’s. 

Robbie’s lips are soft, gorgeous. James presses his lips to Robbie’s again, more firmly this time. Just this once. He has dreamt about this, maybe he’s dreaming right now. Dreaming that Robbie is pressing toward James as James’ thigh brushes Robbie’s leg under the covers, that Robbie’s lips are moving under his and— 

A terrible shrill sound echoes through the bedroom and Robbie is scrambling away from James, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table. James freezes, his head still on Robbie’s pillow, his hand still reaching out to where he had been caressing Robbie’s cheek. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

The sling catches on the blankets as James scrambles as far to the opposite side of the bed as he can. By the time Robbie has silenced his phone and turned toward James, it almost looks like James was on his own side of the bed the entire time. 

“Sorry about that,” Robbie says, groggily. He sits up and switches on the light. 

James squints up at him, the lamp a too-harsh halo behind Robbie’s head. He can’t read Robbie’s expression. No, not Robbie—clearly James can’t be trusted with such familiarity—Lewis. The lamplight can only be laying James’ transgressions bare. The expression that he can’t make out on Lewis’ face is surely disgust. Yet Lewis remains in the bed. 

“You all right, lad?” 

James nods, pushing himself up to a sitting position with his left hand; his traitorous left hand that he touched Lewis with when he had no right. _Fucking hell_. What’s wrong with him? 

“James,” Lewis says. 

Right. Verbal answers are probably necessary for this ‘making sure he’s not succumbed to the concussion’ process.

“I’m fine just— tired.” And also a complete moron. 

“How’s your head?”

“Not too bad, actually.” Apparently, the adrenaline rush of being interrupted while kissing his boss without permission is enough to drown out concussion symptoms. Unless the kiss was a concussion symptom. 

“No pain?”

James shakes his head and the room hardly swims at all. “Not none, but less.”

“Dizziness?”

“Also less.”

“That’s all right, then,” Lewis says. James doubts that. How can anything be all right? How can Lewis be behaving as if nothing has happened? He can’t be willing to ignore this. He must not remember. He must have been that soundly asleep and that only makes what James has done all the worse. 

When Lewis switches off the light, James rolls onto his back and scoots as far away from him as he can without falling out of bed. What the fuck was he thinking? Clearly, he wasn’t thinking at all, only acting on impulses that he’s been fighting for years. He should have been more insistent about sleeping on the sofa. Should have tried to convince Lewis that there was no need for him to stay here and check on him in the night. 

James lies awake for hours listening to Lewis’ soft snores, running through endless scenarios of what he’ll say in the morning when Lewis remembers. He won’t try to defend his actions, he’ll apologise as profusely and sincerely as he can, he’ll beg for Lewis’ forgiveness. He’ll promise to never, ever do such a thing again if Lewis will only allow James to continue on as his sergeant. But no matter how many times he goes through each scenario, the outcome of his transgression is always the ruin of everything.


	3. Chapter 3

James must have finally fallen asleep. When he opens his eyes a beam of too-bright late morning sunlight is shining through a gap in the curtains. For a blissful moment, all he remembers is Lewis in bed next to him, his warmth, the comforting dip in the other side of the mattress. He sighs, rolls onto his right side, grunts at the pain in his shoulder and rolls to his left.

The other pillow smells of Lewis, a mixture of generic aftershave and no-frills shampoo that has no right to be as beguiling as it is. James inhales deeply, letting himself pretend for a few moments that Lewis had been in his bed by choice, that he’s only gotten up to use the loo. That he’ll return and welcome James snuggling up to him. That James will be deserving of calling him Robbie and Robbie will wrap his arms around him, kiss the crown of his head, and call him canny lad. 

_Fuck._

James rolls away from the pillow that smells of Lewis and things he doesn’t deserve even if he could have them. He knew kissing Lewis was wrong, he knew it could only end badly, but he’d wanted. He’d wanted. He still wants; an ache in his chest more relentless and pervasive than the ache in his shoulder, and much more difficult to heal. He is horrible and he feels horrible and yet he’d kiss Lewis again if given the opportunity. James sighs. For those few moments in the middle of the night, he’d let himself believe that it was going to be okay, but it was never going to be okay. Nothing is ever going to be okay again. 

Lewis has left the bed, more than likely he’s left the flat as well; gone home and left James alone to fall into a coma or not. It’s no less than he deserves. He sits up, the ache in his shoulder more insistent once he’s upright, his right arm sore from being held motionless by the sling for so many hours. When he gets out of bed, the ensuing wave of dizziness is mild enough that he only has to stop for a moment before he can continue out the bedroom door. Faint sounds drift down the hallway from the kitchen, cooking sounds. Lewis is still here, which means he doesn’t remember. Both better and worse than Lewis leaving James alone. 

He contemplates returning to the bedroom and getting dressed before venturing farther, putting something besides old joggers and a threadbare t-shirt between him and Lewis and everything he needs to say. But James isn’t sure he’ll be able to do up the zip on his jeans one-handed, and he’s not asking for Lewis’ help with that. 

There are some things he is going to need help with, though, at least until he can work the sling on his own, and there’s not a chance Lewis will want to stick around once James has made his confession. Well, he can jump off that bridge when he comes to it. He can’t let Lewis continue to help him under false pretences. Best to rip the plaster off as soon as possible, get it over with so he can start working out how to pick up the pieces.

When James walks into the kitchen, Lewis is at the stove cooking eggs James doesn’t remember having and looking so comfortable in James’ space it makes his heart ache. 

“Morning.” Lewis flashes James a smile. He definitely doesn’t remember the kiss. “How’s the head?”

“Better,” James replies without much conviction. It is better, not normal, but better. There’s no point in telling Lewis any details when shortly the state of James’ head will no longer be his concern.

Lewis looks him up and down then returns to his cooking. “Shoulder?”

“Aches.” 

“It would. There’s coffee.” Lewis gestures toward the cafetiere—full save for one cup’s worth—seemingly unperturbed by James’ one-word answers. 

James fills a mug with coffee and busies himself adding milk and sugar for longer than necessary before he turns around to face Lewis. When he does, Lewis is spooning scrambled eggs onto plates. 

“You sure you’re all right?” Lewis asks as he places the plates on the table. 

“Yeah. Fine.” James takes a sip of coffee. He wants a cigarette, but Lewis is gesturing toward the table, sitting down, and telling James to tuck in before he has a chance to rifle through the kitchen drawer for a pack of cigarettes that haven’t recently been in the canal. If there are any, they’re stale anyway.

The last thing James wants is for Lewis to think him ungrateful, so he sits and he eats, but he barely tastes his eggs, barely manages to keep up his end of the conversation. Lewis is filling him in on the case, how they’re both on leave for some reason even though James is the one who was injured, how Grainger got a confession from Crook, other details that James can’t quite manage to concentrate on. He keeps getting distracted by the sound of Lewis’ lovely voice and the fact that this may well be the last meal they will ever share so amiably. 

James should be enjoying this, this final few minutes of Lewis smiling at him across the table like he genuinely enjoys James’ company, before he tells Lewis what he’s done and faces the consequences. If Lewis forgives him there’s the ghost of a chance that he’ll allow James to stay on as his sergeant. If not, well, the idea of staying in CID without Lewis has long since lost its appeal. Maybe Professor Pinnock still has a research position available. That’s a logical career choice, it’s not running away from a disaster of his own making. 

Here James is, eating the last meal Lewis will ever enjoy sharing with him and he’s not even fully present, his thoughts barrelling ahead with visions of how different his life will be in a week’s time. In a day. In an hour. He can probably blame the concussion for his lack of focus but it doesn’t matter, the outcome is the same. Before James knows it, Lewis is standing, picking up their empty plates—though James doesn’t remember finishing his breakfast—and pouring him more coffee. He doesn’t even half deserve Lewis’ kindness.

This is his cue. Time to face the consequences of his actions. James can’t let Lewis keep doing things for him when Lewis would be gone in an instant if he knew the truth.

“James.” Lewis is standing in front of him, by the look on his face he’s said James’ name more than once. 

“Sorry,” James says, not quite meeting Lewis’ eyes. 

“You’ll be fine on your own for a bit while I pop home to feed Monty, yeah? Shouldn’t be gone more than an hour.”

“Oh. Yes. But there’s no need—” James shakes his head, the world swims only the slightest bit at the motion. Now is the time to tell Lewis, give him the opportunity to leave and not return. “Sir, I—” 

“Robbie, lad. No need for sir till we’re back at work.”

“But you don’t—” James looks down at the table. If Lewis knew he wouldn’t want James to call him Robbie. If he knew, he wouldn’t want James to call him anything ever again. _Blurt it out, you fucking coward_. But he can’t. He knows he should, but he can’t. What difference will an hour make when the worst is already inevitable? He can use the time Lewis is gone to come up with the best way of saying what he needs to say. It’s not stalling. It will all go more smoothly once he’s had some time to think and a bit more coffee. That’s the best route forward. 

James sighs. “I am going to need to learn to manage on my own at some point, you know.”

Lewis gives him a look of quiet exasperation. “Aye, and you will. But it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Give yourself a break, lad.”

James sighs again, he doesn’t deserve a break. 

“Want help to the sofa before I go?”

“I can manage.” James doesn’t miss the fact that Lewis watches him as he makes his way across the room. Then, compounding James’ feelings of guilt, Lewis retrieves a glass of water and the bottle of painkillers from the kitchen, placing them both on the coffee table within reach, and drapes the blanket that was slung over the armchair across James’ legs. 

“That should do you till I’m back,” Lewis says. “Need anything while I’m out?” 

“Cigarettes,” James mutters. The headache that’s been pressing insistently behind his eyes all morning may only be the concussion, but the nicotine withdrawal isn’t helping. 

Lewis purses his lips but doesn’t say no. “Get some rest lad,” he says on his way out the door.

James lets his head fall back against the sofa, wincing when the tender spot hits the cushion, and tries to collect his thoughts into some semblance of order. This is his last chance to come up with something that might get him through this with at least his job still intact.

* * *

  
When he hears the sound of the key in the lock, James is still slouched on the sofa staring up at the ceiling and contemplating his fate. He doesn’t remember sleeping but he doesn’t remember time passing either. The blanket has slipped off his legs to puddle on the floor at his feet. He never did take any of the painkillers or drink any water. New layers of headache bloom behind his eyes when he lifts his head, throbbing in time with his shoulder. He really does need a cigarette. James scrubs his hand over his face and presses his fingers to his brow and temples, trying to ease the pressure. It doesn’t help much.

Lewis doesn’t call out when he enters the flat. Presumably, he thinks James is asleep. James indulges in the momentary fantasy that Lewis hasn’t called out to him because they live together, that Lewis coming home and puttering about in the kitchen is part of their daily routine. James closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the fridge opening, things being removed from carrier bags, the kettle being switched on. 

Then all is silent, save for the quiet roar of the kettle boiling. James opens his eyes to find Lewis standing by the armchair watching him, an unreadable look on his face. He blinks and looks away as if James has caught him out. He’s holding something in his right hand.

“Don’t think the nurse would approve,” Lewis says. “But nicotine withdrawal on top of the rest of it can’t be any fun.” He tosses James a pack of cigarettes which James doesn’t quite manage to catch one-handed. It bounces off his chest and he grabs it on the rebound. 

“You didn’t—” 

“Aye, if they ask I didn’t, but if you can’t make it out to the garden on your own I’m not helping you.” 

“Thanks?” 

Lewis waves him off. “Go on then.”

James gets up off the sofa and makes his way outside with a minimum of dizziness, settling heavily into the one chair in his sad excuse for a garden. Ease of access for smoking was the only appeal of the garden when he let the flat, and with the deteriorating concrete patio, it hasn’t gotten any more appealing. He pulls a lighter from the sheltered spot under the arm of the chair and lights up. 

The first hit of nicotine is bliss, the second releases tension in his shoulders that has nothing to do with one of them being recently dislocated. For the length of time it takes him to finish the cigarette, he almost forgets about the previous night and the confession he still needs to make. 

He’s contemplating a second cigarette when Lewis opens the door. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks. I know you don’t—” James sighs. “Thanks.”

“You coming in?”

James wants to say no, stay out here and smoke the rest of the pack, put it off a little while longer, but now that his headache has abated he’s keenly aware of how much his shoulder hurts, and there’s no position he can sit in in this chair that doesn’t put pressure on it. Some of those painkillers wouldn’t go amiss. Besides, the cold of the damp concrete is starting to seep into his bare feet.

He pushes himself out of the chair and takes two steps before an errant bit of chipped concrete catches him on the arch of his foot. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, stumbling, nearly falling without his right arm for balance and Lewis is there, hand at James’ left elbow, then arm around his waist, leading him inside. James doesn’t think he’s bleeding, it was a surprise is all, he’s perfectly capable of getting to the sofa on his own. But Lewis smells so good. He must have showered when he went home to feed Monty. His hair is damp and he’s wearing jeans and a check shirt, no longer yesterday’s suit. James may lean into him a bit more than necessary as they cross to the sofa. 

Lewis sits down on the sofa with him, his hand lingering on James’ lower back. James should move away. If he’s not going to move away he should at least come clean, then Lewis will do the moving away for him. James meets Lewis’ eyes and all the words he means to say lodge in his throat. Lewis is gazing at him; steady, and kind, and concerned, and a whole host of things that James doesn’t deserve. 

“You all right, lad?” 

James nods. Lewis rubs his hand tentatively up James’ back and, adding another spectacularly terrible decision to the ones he’s already made, James turns his face into Lewis’ shoulder. He can feel the imminent loss choking him. 

“‘M sorry,” James mumbles into Lewis’ shirt. 

Another stoke of Lewis’ hand on his back. “For what? You should get after your landlord to fix that patio.” 

James lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “It’s not— Sorry, I’m so…”

“It’s not your fault Crook pulled that stunt. You’ll mend.”

He shakes his head against the fabric of Lewis’ shirt. “No. There are… things you don’t know.” 

“James, has something happened?” Lewis sits forward, turning his head to try to look James in the eye. 

“Dislocated shoulder, concussion,” James mumbles, face still pressed to Lewis’ shoulder. _Kissed you while you were sleeping. Been in love with you for ages._

“Aye.” Lewis’ hand slides across James’ back again, offering more comfort he doesn’t deserve. He’s taking advantage. It’s not fair to Lewis for him to extend so much kindness to James when he has behaved so horribly. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Always is,” James sighs. 

“James.” The concern in Lewis’ voice is palpable. 

James sits up. He’s going to miss sitting next to Lewis on sofas. When he glances up, Lewis’ face is all kind concern and James almost doesn’t follow through again. But he’s let this go on far too long as it is. He takes a deep breath. 

“Last night, when your alarm went off, I— You were asleep and I…” James bites at his thumbnail, looks down at his lap. “I kissed you. You were asleep and I kissed you. It was a violation… You’ve been so kind to me and I— You don’t deserve—” James shakes his head. “I thought you’d remember, that you just wouldn’t come back. Would have been simpler but I can’t let you keep on— I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express how sorry I am. I understand that you won’t want to… after everything and I— _Fuck_.” 

There’s no air left in his lungs. James covers his face with his hand, wishing he had two good hands to cover his face completely, wishing he could return to that moment in the middle of the night and be content with being close to Lewis. That once in his life he could have not fucked up a good thing when he had it. He’d been keeping his shit together. He could have gone on for years with pints after work and takeaway on Lewis’ sofa. That would have been enough. He would have made it enough. 

“I do remember,” Lewis says, quiet, like some sort of peace offering. But James is the one who should be extending peace offerings. 

James blinks at him. “You— How—? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You didn’t.” Lewis shifts beside him but doesn’t move away, he lifts his hand as if he’s going to touch James’ shoulder, then lets it fall into his lap.

“If you remember—” James shakes his head. “Why come back here? Why not just leave me?”

“The same reason I let the nurse think I’d be here with you when you were discharged from hospital.”

Of course. Lewis feels responsible because James was injured on the job. He could have sent a PC to sit with him, or left him in hospital overnight, but that’s not the kind of man Robbie Lewis is. Which only makes what James has done all the worse. 

“Professional obligation,” James says, as the last tiny flicker of hope is snuffed out. 

Lewis looks sad. “You think that’s all you are to me?”

A bit of hope rekindles itself. James shrugs, or tries to, stopping when the ache in his shoulder becomes distinctly more than dull. If Lewis isn’t here because of his obligations as an inspector… If he remembers the kiss… James doesn’t let himself consider the other plausible explanations. He knows what he wants the reason for Lewis’ continued presence to be and he knows just as assuredly that what he wants is never going to happen.

“But you can’t— I’m not—” Is the inability to finish sentences one of the symptoms of a concussion? The pieces don’t make sense, they can’t possibly fit together the way the sparking flame of hope in James’ chest wants them to.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, lad. The nurse said people with concussions sometimes do things they wouldn’t normally. I’m not going to hold that against you. We can forget it ever happened and move on.”

Oh. Of course. This is exactly why even beginning to hope is dangerous. But this is fine. This is the best possible outcome. Lewis doesn’t ever need to know the depth and breadth of how much James wants. They can move past this, they can return to the way things were. That can be enough like it’s always been enough. The memory of coming so close to losing Lewis forever will keep him from crossing the line again.

“Okay, yeah. Good. Thank you.” James tries to sound grateful, Lewis has already given him so much and now he’s giving him this. It doesn’t matter that James wants something that’s so far from possible it might as well be in another galaxy.

“James, is that not what you want?”

“No. Yeah. I mean, it’s fine. Thank you. I think I need to—” James gestures down the hallway toward the bedroom and pushes himself up from the sofa, his t-shirt gets bound up under the sling as he moves and Lewis is looking at where James’ shirt isn’t, the strip of skin that’s exposed between the bottom of his bunched up shirt and the waistband of his joggers. Lewis licks his lips.

“Sir,” James chokes out. He must be going mad. This must be some sort of concussion coma dream. Lewis’ expression is full of such heat, heat to match the flame that burns in James’ chest. 

“Robbie,” Lewis says. “Call me Robbie if you’re— If you want—” he rests his hand on James’ leg, tentative, questioning. It’s a good thing James hadn’t made it all the way to standing because he very likely would have fallen over. He sinks onto the sofa.

“I do want.” James breathes, his voice is embarrassingly raw. “Robbie.” He searches Robbie’s face. Robbie is gazing at him, his expression steady and full of affection and James leans forward, cups Robbie’s face in his hand, and kisses him. For real this time, with permission. And _fuck_, it’s a thousand times better when Robbie slides his hand over the nape of James’ neck, pulling him closer. Robbie wants this, _fuck_, he wants this. 

The hope in James’ chest is a conflagration; overwhelming, devastating, incredible. It doesn’t matter that the ache in his shoulder intensifies where it’s pressed into the cushion. Nothing matters. If this is a concussion induced hallucination James doesn’t care. Let him die of a head injury if this is his last memory on earth. He’d do it all again exactly that same just to have this. Robbie’s lips moving against his own, his tongue pushing into James’ mouth, the warmth of Robbie’s body pressed against his. 

James shifts up onto his knees, into Robbie’s lap, kissing along his jaw, sighing into his neck. Nothing matters but Robbie’s hands on him, his lips and teeth and tongue, and James is moaning into Robbie’s mouth, rocking forward into his lap and _fuck_, Robbie is hard too. James gasps as Robbie tilts his hips up off the sofa, delicious friction and too much fabric between them. 

His shoulder brushes Robbie’s as he tries to press closer. He gasps again—not from pleasure, his vision going dark at the edges—but even that hardly matters, the pain only making the pleasure that much more exquisite. He never wants to stop. It doesn’t matter that he can’t quite breathe without pain blossoming in his shoulder. He doesn’t need oxygen, he can survive on Robbie’s kisses alone. But then Robbie is pulling away, looking into James’ eyes. His expression is so full of love James almost falls off his lap. 

“Wow,” James says, more exhalation than words, a smile tugging at his lips. “I— You— Wow.” He rests his forehead against Robbie’s and closes his eyes, still panting, waves of dizzy pleasure coursing through him.

“Yeah,” Robbie chuckles.

“I wish I had two hands. I want to touch you.”

“All in good time, lad.”

“God,” James breathes, sitting up again so he can see Robbie properly. “I love it when you call me lad.”

“Do you?” Robbie runs his hands down James’ back settling them just above the curve of his arse, fingers caressing James’ skin up under his t-shirt. 

“I do. It’s like—” James glances at Robbie, then away. “I’ve always wished it was an endearment.”

“It is,” Robbie says. “Canny lad.”

“I know but—“

“James.” Robbie cups James’ face in his hands, holding his gaze. “It is.”

When James leans forward to kiss him, dizziness prickles at the edges of his vision and he almost overbalances. Robbie has both arms around James, steadying him before he even fully registers that he’s started to tilt sideways. 

“Easy there. You look a little peaky.”

James huffs out a small laugh, his breath coming up short. “The nurse was right, I guess. About physical activity.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Robbie says with a smile that lights up James’ world, his hand soothing on James’ back. A promise. “We can carry on carrying on when you’re feeling up to it.”

“Would that I were now,” James sighs. “I can’t believe that you— But you do?” 

“Aye,” Robbie replies, still smiling. “Thought you’d’ve worked it out before now.”

“I’d hoped… but it didn’t seem possible. That you could— with me.” 

“Well it is and I do,” Robbie says. 

James sighs again, the wobbliness he’s feeling is not all down to the concussion, but still… “I think need to lie down.” 

“Want company?”

God does he ever. “Yeah,” James says. “You have no idea.”

Robbie smirks up at him. “I don’t know, I may have an inkling.”

James gives Robbie a chaste kiss on the lips then slides off his lap none too gracefully. A small wave of dizziness washes over him when he stands, but it’s not enough to knock him off his feet. 

When he gets to the bedroom, James crawls directly into bed, lying down on his back and letting his weight sink into the mattress. He lets out a bone-weary sigh. “How can I be this exhausted when it’s only just past noon and I’ve done nothing all day?” 

Robbie stops on the other side of the bed, looking down at James with affectionate exasperation. It hits James that Robbie has been giving him that look for years, the affection is nothing new, he’s just been blind to it. How long, he wonders. And why isn’t Robbie getting into bed?

“I didn’t bring any pyjamas,” Robbie says. Oh. Did he sleep in his suit trousers last night? He must have done, stripping down to his pants and getting in bed with his sergeant would have been over the line. A line that doesn’t exist anymore.

“I don’t think mine would fit, but I don’t mind if you—” James gestures in the direction of Robbie’s belt and raises an eyebrow.

Robbie nods, cheeks slightly pink, then unbuckles his belt, undoes his flies, and lets his jeans fall to the floor. James is treated to a view of pale blue boxers that don’t give him much to go on and legs that make his mouth water.

“Sir,” James says, doing nothing to disguise the heat in his voice.

“Ah, go on with you.” Robbie waves his hand dismissively in James’ direction, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and dropping it to the floor with his jeans, before crawling into bed in his undershirt and pants. 

James rolls toward him, pressing his body to as much of Robbie’s warmth as he can and Robbie drapes his arm over him, careful not to brush his injured shoulder. James wishes he wasn’t wearing joggers, but even with how much he wants to feel Robbie’s skin against his own taking them off seems a daunting task. Instead he snuggles closer, presses his face to Robbie’s chest, and inhales.

“Ah, lad,” Robbie says with a chuckle and a soothing hand along James’ back and James is asleep before he can form a response.

It’s dark when James wakes. Robbie is propped up next to him on throw pillows from the living room, a bottle of beer on the bedside table, reading James’ battered copy of _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_. He looks up from the book when James stirs and smiles at him, a smile that warms James through to his bones.

“Still here,” James mumbles.

“Said I won’t be, did I?”

“You did,” James says with a contented sigh. “For how long though?”

“As long as you want me, lad.”

James scoots closer, pressing his face to the soft fabric of Robbie’s t-shirt, his next words come out muffled. “Forever, then?”

“Sounds about right.”

_____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robbie is reading The Adventure of the Three Garridebs just because.


End file.
